


Prose & Cons

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: Conventions, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Travel, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 09:31:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3845857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's the very last thing he has to do on this leg of promotion, and the timing sucks. He's offered to back out, but it's a friend who's been generous who asked in the first place, and the panel is cool. He wants to go and he doesn't. She wants him to and she doesn't."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So, a student typo gave this its title. Brain!Pony broke out of its paddock. A bit of fluffy nothing (fluffning? Flunothy?) set between Veritas (6x22) and For Better or Worse (6x23). Either of two or three shot depending on how long the ending gets.

 

 

"You don't have to, you know."

She whirls at his voice in her ear. At his breath hot on the nape of her neck and his hands landing suddenly—startlingly—on the counter on either side of her elbows. She hits him. A pulled, limp-fisted punch that's at once too close to a girly slap and more emphatic than she'd like. More emphatic in some ways. Not nearly emphatic enough in others.

"Gotcha!" He grins and keeps her penned in, mostly shrugging off the slap or whatever it is. She sees the mental Ow flash across his face, though.

"Jerk."

She sticks out her tongue. Playful, but not entirely. He did get her. He's been "getting" her a lot lately. It's embarrassing. She's a cop. People don't sneak up on her. Certainly not people with all the grace and stealth of a golden retriever puppy who's just heard the leash jingle.

"That's Mr. Jerk, soon-to-be-Mrs. Jerk."

His voice is full of genuine awe as he says it. Excitement. He's ridiculous. She is, too. Every bit as ridiculous, kissing him back when he leans in. Smiling, like the idea of being Mr. and Mrs. Jerk is wonderful.

"You're trying to peek," she murmurs. He is, of course. He's nosy on any given day. He's double-overtime nosy about this, and utterly transparent. She catches his lower lip, a sharp, definite nip. "Mr. Jerk."

"Not peeking." He pushes past her objection with a nip back. "Not just peeking. I can help." He pulls away a little to look down at her. "I don't know if you know, but I'm a famous writer."

"Famous you say?" She reaches behind her and snaps the notebook shut, very nearly catching his fingers as they creep toward the hard covers. There's nothing to see. She's yet to write a single word, but it's the principle of the thing.

"Famous." He gives her an injured sniff. "A familiar face on page six and a variety of late-night sofas."

"The darling of the convention circuit," she adds.

There's a little bite to it. A little bit of a hang-dog look from him. It's the very last thing he has to do on this leg of promotion, and the timing sucks. He's offered to back out, but it's a friend who's been generous who asked in the first place, and the panel is cool. He wants to go and he doesn't. She wants him to and she doesn't.

"You should come." He says it gently. Shyly. It's at odds with the confident nudge of his hips against hers and the rasp of his cheek all down her neck. Innocent words when his body is anything but. He's working on her. Again.

"Castle . . . " She draws his name out. Almost a whine, because she can't. They've been over and over it, and he knows she can't.

The wedding is officially looming now. It's why he keeps catching her out. Enjoying the novelty of sneaking up on her while her mind is on other things. A hundred other things, and she wishes for the tenth time since sunrise that they'd seriously considered eloping. She wonders for the hundredth time since she pulled out this stupid notebook with its stupid blank pages if she can still talk him into it. Something small and quick and by the book. Someone else's book.

"I know." He stops her, bringing his arms around her. A tight, apologetic squeeze. "There's a million things to do. But we can pay people to do them." He brings his mouth to his ear. "Not just famous: Rich, too."

He can't resist, though he must know it's a tactical error. He does know. He's already following. Trying for damage control as she ducks out from under his arm, pointedly gathering up the notebook when his curious gaze lands on it.

"We're already paying too many people. Our wedding planner's assistant has an assistant!" She stops, her dramatic, striding exit utterly ruined by the fact that she can't remember where she was going or what she'd intended to do once she got there.

"So we'll get her an assistant." He crowds up behind her.

"Him."

"Gerald?" She can feel his eyebrows lift. The mobility of his face against her own skin. "Gerald doesn't have an assistant? That's . . ."

"Castle." She breaks away, turning to face him.

"Kate." He reaches out, arm's length now, and brushes a thumb under her eye. "You're exhausted."

She catches sight of herself in the foyer mirror, surprised by the shadows she can see even from this distance. She can't remember if she's done her make up yet, She can't remember if it's this bad with or without concealer. He follows the flick of her glance. He sees the weak moment.

"They're putting me up in a ridiculous suite." He catches her fingers and starts to reel her in. "Giant tub. A view. Super fancy peanuts in the minibar." He's murmuring in her ear now, his arm twined around her waist. "Thirty-six hours in the thickest, fluffiest bathrobe you've ever seen."

"Bathrobe?" It's ridiculously plaintive. Her own voice, though it hardly sounds like it. She wants him to talk her into this. She hates it, but she does.

"You don't even have to leave the room." His fingers slip inside her collar, fanning along her collarbone. He lowers his head and breathes her in, as if her skin is already soft and fragrant with long hours of soaking. "You should come."

"I should come." It's an echo, not acquiescence. Just dumb repetition, because he's good at working on her. It's a tactical error.

He's dancing her around the living room before the words are even out of her mouth. He's on the phone and kissing her sideways and generally being a completely ridiculous pain. She objects. She tries to take it back, but it's done. Written in stone as far as he's concerned, and he's gone now. In the office, making things happen, but his face appears, beaming in the doorway.

"Gonna be great. Just what you need."

"What I need?" she shoots back.

He nods. Gives her a sly grin and gestures to the notebook clutched tight in her hand. "Change of scenery. Best thing for writer's block."

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: "She should be bored. The clock's been in double digits for a while, and she's long since done with actual sleep. This isn't her. She isn't one to laze about. She's not one to sigh and let her mind drift and her body stay warm and heavy and still. No matter how good the bed is, this isn't her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Three chapters. I should have the third, which will be brief and epilogue-ish, up this evening or in the morning at the latest. Set between Veritas and For Better or Worse.

 

 

_Love you._

It's fleeting. Something rushed and urgent in the words, though the lips on her skin linger.

"No." She hears her own cross-sounding voice through warm, thick . . . something.

_Sleep._

But that can't be. She can't sleep, she has too much to do. She hasn't been sleeping. But here she is, clutching at something, and only just upright. Kind of half upright, even though her hands don't work,and she can't hold on properly to whatever this is surrounding and supporting her. Warming her.

"Castle." Her heavy lids open at last. She feels her face spread in a lazy smile.

"Hey. Didn't mean to wake you," he says, but his face lights up, giving lie to the words. He's captivated by the so-undone version of her he rarely gets to see. "I have to go. You should sleep, though."

He tries to lower her back to the mattress—the incredible, otherworldly mattress that's cast some kind of spell on her—but she fights him. Clumsily, but it's still a fight.

"Can't sleep."

She kicks at the heavy pile of blankets, her tone implying it's the stupidest notion ever. But he's sliding his palms higher—hips, ribs, shoulder blades—controlling her fall until she's settled back against a pile of pillows that conforms perfectly to her body.

"Can't," she says again. It's one of the least convincing things she's ever heard. Still she adds, "too much to do."

"Nothing to do." He's ignoring her, mostly. Tugging the comforter high and fanning her hair out, because it drives her insane to have it bunched up behind her neck, and _oh,_ that's heavenly. Cool linen and the scent of him. "Not for you. _I'll_ be slaving away over a hot Sharpie. But _you_ have exactly no obligations."

"No." She tries to push up on her elbows, but in truth, sleep and the mattress and everything tug her down and down. Earthward and into sleep. "Stupid vows. Have to . . . "

"Have to _nothing._ Stupid vows can wait." He punctuates it with a kiss planted on her forehead. A fussy, _bossy_ kiss she'd have something to say about if her eyes weren't closing. If she weren't drifting, lower and lower. Heavy and down and away.

"Nothing naked." Someone's mumbling. Words sliding past one another and it might be her. "No signing naked things."

That holds him there. It wins her another kiss, laughter rippling over her skin.

"Wouldn't dream of it." She feels the mattress rise. The withdrawal of his weight and warmth, and she wants to protest. "Practically a married man."

"Practically." The word curves her lips and settles her deeper. It draws her down even more.

_Love you,_ she hears again. Farther away now. _Rest._

And she does.

* * *

 

She should be bored. The clock's been in double digits for a while, and she's long since done with actual sleep. This isn't her. She isn't one to laze about. She's not one to sigh and let her mind drift and her body stay warm and heavy and still. No matter _how_ good the bed is, this isn't her.

She should be energized. They rolled in late, but this is more solid hours of sleep in a row than she's had in weeks. _Months,_ and she should be itching to get up and accomplish things. To explore, if nothing else. She's hundreds of miles from New York, and she loves a new-ish city. She loves the million little differences in sights and scents and sounds. She should crave movement. She should need all that to keep her mind busy.

_Satisfied._

But she's satisfied just like this. Lying here with nothing she has to do. Little she even _can_ do, so far as the wedding goes. They're down to time-and-place minutiae. Linens that have to be vetted in rooftop light. Table layouts that have to go from paper flags to reality and gift bags to be shaken out and filled up, one by one, with sprays of tissue and the laundry list of mismatched things they finally agreed should go in them. Martha and their planner and her assistant and her assistant and his . . . even Alexis is making more time than Kate thinks she can really spare. It's all being taken care of by people far better suited to it, leaving her nothing to do.

Almost nothing. There's still the vows. Her head rolls to the side, her eyes fixing on the dark square of the notebook. The one thing that followed her here, and she has to take care of that at least. She _has_ to.

She throws the covers off and shivers. The air is cool enough that she wonders if it's a trick of his. If he cranked the thermostat down to keep her tangled up in the warmth of the bed.

It doesn't seem like it, though. The promised bathrobe is right there, spread out in the overstuffed chair that's within stumbling distance of the bed itself. She slips into it, moaning out loud at its feel against her skin. Her feet sink into thick carpet, then glide over exquisite slate tile as she makes her way to the thermostat and finds it at seventy.

It's no trick, it's the space. She sweeps open the heavy blackout curtains to let light in through gauzy sheers. She shivers again. It's definitely the space. Vast and high above the city with a wall of glass that won't catch the sun for hours yet.

She moves away from that particular chill and finds the rest of the place strategically cozy. She trails her fingertips along the marble surrounding the high, step-in tub and actually considers it. She considers sinking from one type of warmth into another.

Her stomach rumbles, though. Sight and scent draw her toward the bar. It's decidedly warmer there. Inviting, with its gorgeous coffee service and a linen-covered tray of pastries. She sinks into a chair with her hands full—her lap full with reserve _pain au chocolat—_ and idles a little longer.

The notebook sits not-quite forgotten, far across the room. The fancy pen she bought, desperate and foolish, rests beside it. It should bother her. Feeling stuck like this. It _did_ bother her at home. It wore on her mind and heart. Another thing she _should_ be doing, even though she was already doing ten things at once that absolutely _needed_ doing right then.

But here, her mind comes to rest and moves on. She wonders with a sudden laugh that's not like her if they keep each other company. Notebook and pen. If they're a matched set with no need of her. She wonders about a hundred silly things. With coffee and chocolate on her tongue—wrapped up in the fluffiest bathrobe she's ever seen—she wonders.

She idles.

* * *

 

He barges through the door, clumsy and loud, like his arms are full. She hears the rustle of bags and the urgent slide of metal on metal as he flips the security bar.

"Draw the blinds. I think I shook them, but there's a balcony, and . . ."

She tips her head back, languorous. Heavy lids blinking wide and falling half closed again as water laps at the base of her skull. She smiles at him.

He stops, absolutely. His harried, breathless rush just _stops. "Beckett?"_

"The same."

She lifts her left hand, steaming water and fragrant bubbles gliding over her skin. She wriggles her fingers, and her ring catches the sun that's just slanting through the wall of glass. Light fractures, climbing the wall and gliding across the ceiling. He's in motion again. He's stripping off his clothes and closing the distance to the tub in long, eager strides. He's lowering his mouth to hers.

"I . . . there's lunch. Please tell me you're not hungry," he murmurs as he slides into the water.

"I am, though," she says into his mouth. "Hungry."

He whimpers. "Please tell me you're only euphemistically hungry."

"Euphemistically," she repeats, shivering at the cool air as she climbs over his thighs and her back breaches the water. "Euphemistically for now."

* * *

 

"Any progress?" He nudges her cheek with his nose, lifting her gaze to the notebook and pen propped between bath salts and body lotion on the tub-side table.

"Not . . . I haven't done anything." She drags her lips along his jaw and waits for the tug of guilt. It doesn't come though. She feels distant from it. Curiosity where anxiety should be. Where it has been and where it was until they slipped together between unfamiliar sheets. "Nothing all morning."

"Scandalous." He chuckles softly.

"This isn't me." She buries her face in the crook of his shoulder. It's a groan that has nothing to do with any real regret. More to with the way he coaxes water over her shoulders before the chill can even rise when her body shifts again. "It's not _me_."

"It is." The words are soft, but there's an urgency to them. A seriousness that goes strangely with the fingers he tangles in her hair to keep them just like this. Her face buried against his shoulder, his lips brushing her temple. "This Kate . . ." His palm strokes down her side. "She's lighter." His fingers fan out and curl over hip and thigh. It's not quiet decent and she feels his breath catch. "And more . . . here." He plants a foot on the bottom of the tub and arcs his hips and suddenly she's beneath him. He's braced above her, his eyes roaming her body and searching her face. "This _is_ you." He tastes her mouth. Savors it like it's brand new. "A really good you."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Again, thank you for reading the fluffning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: "She has to get dressed. It's a grim prospect at first. From several angles. In the first place, it feels like the worst kind of betrayal when she tugs the knot at her waist and lets the robe slip down her arms. She loves the thing, and she's seriously thinking she might just get married in it. She thinks she might just live out the rest of her days in the fluffiest robe she's ever seen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, a student typo gave this its title. Brain!Pony broke out of its paddock. A bit of fluffy nothing (fluffning? Flunothy?) set between Veritas (6x22) and For Better or Worse (6x23). Final chapter.

 

He tucks her back into the robe. He tries to.

"Beckett, just . . . " He jerks her toward him by the lapels.

"Just, _nothing._ " She struggles. She slips under his arm, racing clear of him with the robe flaring out behind her.

"Nothing. Exactly." He gives chase. He catches her by the hood, because of course it has a hood. The coziest, most diabolical hood in existence. "That's the plan."

She breaks free again. She darts the other direction, and they're wreaking havoc on the room. They're laughing and toppling ottomans and quaint wicker baskets filled with towels. She wonders what the room below them must think. She wonders fleetingly and doesn't care at all. Not really.

"Nothing is _not_ the plan, Castle!" She spins and wriggles one shoulder free, then the other.

"Not the plan?" He gapes down at the empty robe and back at her. "Is nakedness the plan?" He takes a step toward her. "Because I am on board with the nakedness plan."

She backs into the wall, rising on her toes. A purr scales her throat at the rough feel of his jeans against her skin as he pins her. As she _lets_ him pin her, for the moment.

"Except you can't," she says. Her tongue touches the corner of his mouth, catching stray chocolate from their hurried, haphazard lunch, and it's the first taste of regret she's had since she'd said she'd come with him. "You have to go."

"I do," he agrees, but his hands are busy on her body. "I have to go soon."

* * *

 

"There." He gives the loose ends of the soft, knotted belt a final snap and steps back to admire his handiwork. "Perfect."

"I have to get dressed _sometime_ , Castle." She glowers at him. She crosses her arms, tucking each fist into the wide opposite sleeve.

"Sometime." He says, trailing wistful fingers down the soft placket of the robe. He nods, resigned. "You _probably_ have to get dressed for the plane tomorrow."

"Tomorrow."

She sticks her tongue out at him, because it's all too plausible. The fabric is warm and soft and fragrant. She feels herself sinking again. Settling into these comfortable, unfamiliar contours. But something else strikes her then. Something obvious that he hasn't asked.

"Tomorrow. Don't you . . ." Her eyes drop to the floor. Her fingers wrap tight around her her own wrists and tug. The idea's only just welled up and she's uncertain. She looks up again, meeting his curious gaze. "Do you want me to come?"

"To the signing?" He looks puzzled at first. His face screws up in a frown and she knows he'd already had enough of that part before the morning was even finished. But it dawns on him then. "The panel."

She can't read him at all, suddenly. He's thrilled at the idea. Thrilled that she offered. She thinks he is, because there's sudden light in his eyes. But his gaze darts away, too. His hands take up the trailing ties of the robe and fiddle. He's thrilled and terrified and shy about it. He's too many other things, and some of them are unfamiliar. Wholly unfamiliar, and it's . . . shocking. The idea of uncharted territory between them. It's _shocking_ and a little scary, but heady, too. Exciting, like she's peeking between the covers of something new.

"I don't have to come." She works it a little bit. She opens her eyes, wide and innocent. A challenge and they both know it. "If the pressure's too much . . ."

"Pressure." He punishes her for that. He captures her waist and fists his free hand in her still-damp hair. "I am _excellent_ under pressure, Beckett."

"We'll see, won't we?" She tips her head back. She goes soft in his arms and skims her thumbs under his jaw, giving in entirely to the kiss. "We'll see."

* * *

 

She has to get dressed.

It's a grim prospect at first. From several angles. In the first place, it feels like the worst kind of betrayal when she tugs the knot at her waist and lets the robe slip down her arms. She loves the thing, and she's seriously thinking she might just get married in it. She thinks she might just live out the rest of her days in the fluffiest robe she's ever seen.

In the second place, she has no idea what she might have thrown in the suitcase at the last minute. She can't even remember how much of a hand Castle had in it. It might well be all lingerie and boy shorts and tank tops old enough to be transparent.

She hauls the luggage on to the bed and digs. It's his stuff and hers, all mixed up. It's . . . Nice. Companionable the way his tidy, efficient style speaks of years of travel like this. The way it all meets her backups-for-her-backups approach, and the zip-away compartment is like the bureau-top at home. His stuff and hers.

She lifts a few tightly rolled items out and sets them on the bed. She's about to, but she stops short. The color catches her eye. That distinctly hideous shade of purple giving way to black on the diagonal. The sheen of cheap fabric. She drops everything, spilling boxers and yoga pants and balled-up socks as she pulls it free.

She spins from the bed, holding it up to her body and laughing at herself in the cheval mirror. She can't believe he snuck the damned thing in. She can't even imagine where he _found_ it, and it would serve him right if she showed up to the panel, front and center, fully decked out in her Lieutenant Chloe finery.

She sets it aside though. Something for later, maybe, if he's good. If he's very, very good.

* * *

 

She wanders the floor without plan or purpose. She has time. He's still signing for a while yet, and then he has the press room. The panel is a little later, so she flattens herself against walls to make way for elaborate costumes. She smiles at awkward flirtations and looks away when heartbreak plays out in the crowded corners that only _seem_ private.

She wonders, and it's lovely. She's filled with nostalgia for her Nebula-9 days and glad from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes that they're so far behind her. They're good memories and bad ones and she hasn't thought about them in ages. Even since the case, she'd locked all that away again, but she's nostalgic now. She sifts through them all as she strolls.

She searches the faces in the crowd. She watches the sway of hips and long, determined strides. Laughter tossed over shoulders. Good-natured and not-so-good natured insults tossed from group to group.

She looks for herself and there she is. There's Henry and the friends whose voices and quirks and faces seem sharp in her mind all of a sudden. There they are, and there they're not, because everyone here is so _young_. Because the world keeps turning, and these are different stupid kids with clear eyes and hearts breaking all the time. Healing all the time from different tragedies, big and small. Building on different joys and triumphs.

She finds herself here, and she doesn't, and that's a good thing.

It's a lovely thing.

* * *

 

She gets a little lost on her way to the panel.

Not _lost_ exactly. Not lost at all. Just . . . self conscious. She has a special badge clutched between fingers that are suddenly slick with sweat, and she can't bear the thought of announcing herself. She looks down at her clothes. At her usual jeans and jacket and feels conspicuous. She feels like she's cosplaying Nikki Heat and exactly no one is impressed.

She skirts the end of the line just filing in and hears the boom of the host firing up the crowd. She's about to turn tail and run when there's a low voice at her elbow.

"Detective Beckett?"

Kate spins, half expecting . . . she's not even sure what she was half expecting. A uniform or crimes scene tape. A bouncer telling her she's too old and too uncool to be here, maybe. But it's a young woman with a headset and Staff shirt giving her a slightly harried smile. She introduces herself as Lianna and gestures toward what looks to Kate like a solid wall.

"This is our door." On cue, a crack of light appears and the wall creaks open. A man beckons and they slip in.

It's disorienting at first. Unexpectedly dark, and it takes her a few minutes to realize it's kind of a makeshift backstage area. Black curtains mask the huge, open space on either side and something overhead blocs most of the light. Speakers, she thinks as her eyes adjust and she realizes the sound is a big part of what's tripping her up.

The noise of the room is everywhere. It's coming at her from all sides and she realizes just how _quiet_ she's been for almost a full day. It has her heart rate up and her skin feeling flushed. That same thrill of uncharted territory, the energy of hundreds of people buzzing around her and pulling her into the center.

And then there's sound from the mics on the dais. She creeps the length of the left-hand curtain, drawn that way when she hears his voice. Just a few words cutting in and out now and then and she laughs when she peeks around the edge and sees exactly what she expected. Almost exactly.

He's animated. Standing with one hand on the back of the chair he's too amped up to take just yet, the other shielding the mic resting on the nearby table. He forgets every once in a while, though. He spreads his hands in an excited gesture, and the sound system grabs a word here and there. She's fascinated by the reversal. Her watching him at work, and though it's not the first time, she's _fascinated_.

"We're about to start, Detective, if you could . . .?"

Lianna is at her elbow again, and Kate jumps. She stammers something apologetic and makes her way toward the half circle of chairs they have set up further back in the wings, but at a wider angle. They have a good view of the dais from the side and back, but they're hidden from the crowd.

The next little while is dizzying. Overwhelming again, as the room erupts when the host leads with introductions. And then the pitch of things falls abruptly. The moderator takes over and it's kind of . . . droning. She can't remember who this guy is, though there was some eye rolling from Castle, now that she thinks about it. It's not the friend who organized things, but someone who "had to be included."

The panel is on serialization and medium hopping—novel to graphic novel and vice versa, plus tv, film, and newer forms—and she wonders at the way he manages to suck the interest out of any of it. It's better when he starts with questions. The first goes to the woman at Castle's left. She's novelizing a long story arc from a comic of hers and Kate leans in, eager to hear this. How she goes about taking piercing, impressionistic images and making words for them.

Castle is eager, too. He's jotting notes and nodding. Smiling and bouncing his knee. Making the occasional sly comment with his hand cupped around the mic and then waving not-quite-guilty apologies. It's catching. Kate pushes up from the chair, too energized to sit. She creeps forward to the edge of the curtain again, wanting to be nearer it all. Nearer him.

She's caught up in staking out a position. Keeping an eye on her handlers and worrying that she'll get busted. Worrying that someone in the crowd will make eye contact and everything will be strange, when she just wants to listen. She just wants to watch him at work.

She's so caught up that she misses the first part of whatever the moderator has tossed off as an aside. She sees Castle's shoulders stiffen, though. She sees his jaw flex in a flash of anger and hears the brittleness of his tone, though she can't make out the words. She moves herself sideways, clear of some overhang, and the words resolve.

"You have to admit resolution is the enemy."

The moderator's tone is dismissive. Kate sees Castle's jaw twitch again. He hates this guy and she's one-hundred percent on his side.

"The enemy of what?" he fires back.

"Interest." He looks toward the audience and back, as though it's obvious. As though they'll all be nodding in support. "Take Nikki Heat." There's a pause. The hint of a sneer in his tone. "Central conflict. Resolved. And then you marry her off . . ."

"I haven't though." Castle leans in, his elbows on the table. A change comes over him, sudden and complete. His voice is low and conspiratorial. It's calculated and genial, as though the animus arcing between him and the moderator ten seconds ago was an illusion. "Proposal cliffhanger."

He grins and the room is alive with whoops and laughter. Applause. He has them. Hundreds of them exactly where he wants them, and the moderator's expression turns sour.

"What I'm saying is . . ."

Castle cuts him off. "What you're saying is character doesn't matter. Resolution isn't the enemy. Resolution is possibility. It's growth."

His hands are alive on the table, his attention on the crowd now. On something in the air that's only just spilled out of his mind and they're all eager to hear. She can only see handful of people in the front row, but she feels it. She can taste it.

"If you're doing it right. As a writer or an illustrator or a film-maker . . ." He gestures from panelist to panelists, then brings a palm down on the table for emphasis. The room is quiet. She can feel them leaning in. She can feel how completely he has them, but he turns then. Just a few degrees to his right and he catches her eye. He lights up the world with a smile just for her and she wonders, even after all this time, how he always knows just where to find her. "If what you're making is anything like life, every resolution for every character is a door opening to another self. The best self she can be while she goes looking for something better yet."

She loses him then. The one-by-one words, though she's filled up with it. The love letter he's been writing for years. The one they're writing together. The world is blurry and she turns away from the light, shy with everything that must be all over her face. She wants her notebook badly. She wants her fancy pen. She wants to capture _this_ feeling, because she loves him—of _course_ she loves him—but it's _this_ feeling she wants in ink. Indelible.

But her notebook is back in the room. Her pen. She stops Lianna as she's bustling by, though. She chokes out a request. It makes enough sense that the woman hands something over with an odd look.

A sharpie. A _sharpie,_ and it makes Kate laugh. She rolls up her sleeve, as high as it will go, but the letters are bold. They spill out from beneath the cuff, even when she smooths it back over her skin. They're dark and emphatic, bleeding through he sheer fabric.

_My best self._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading, and sorry for the delay on this chapter. I wasn't feeling well last night or this morning.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: thanks for reading. 2nd/3rd chapter up Friday.


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